


Who We Are

by chaoticamanda



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rvb12, slight tuckington, this takes place while they are still trapped in the canyon on chrorus, wash centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticamanda/pseuds/chaoticamanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash has been told of their complete and utter faith in one another long before the Counselor gets around to telling Locus about it. In fact, they've told him themselves, in their little stories that help him piece together exactly what it means to be apart of the Red and Blue soldiers of Blood Gulch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who We Are

“You don’t even fucking know us!” Tucker shouts, both of his hands fisting in his own hair. He looks a little deranged, but Wash doesn’t blame him-- can’t, “God, I’m so sick of--”

“Then why are you still hanging around then?” Wash cuts him off, his heart pounding in his chest, “Why don’t you just go and be Big Bad Tucker? Leave all of this?”

Tucker pauses, and the way his eyes widen makes Wash’s throat tighten, and he can feel tears burning behind his eyes and he can feel the others watching them with bated breath. A short, mirthless laugh escapes Tucker, “God, jesus, I know Project Freelancer was fucked up, but how can you not get it, Wash? How can you still not fucking get it?”

Wash swallows, and his chest is burning, but he can’t stop yelling, because how can useless sim troopers make him feel like this? So guilty? So envious? He can’t even remember what it is that made Tucker snap, but he’s upset about being shipwrecked on some stupid planet too, and he’s tried his hardest to keep them all together, so why can’t Tucker just be fucking happy? “What? What don’t I fucking get, Tucker? Enlighten me!”

Tucker gets right in his face then, making Wash’s breath stutter, because he can see the freckles on Tucker’s dark skin this close up, but then he’s drawn to Tucker’s lips, and he feels like he’s falling off of that cliff with Maine-- no, the Meta. Tucker’s eyes are sad, and his breath is ragged from their shouting match, and deep down he’s really just so fucking tired. His voice is low now, but still sharp and cutting, “You know what? I don’t think I can, Wash. I think--,” Tucker swallows, his face contorting, “I think you’re too fucked up to realize that we’re a family. The stupid shithead soldiers of Red Team and Blue Team, right? Well--”

“Fuck you,” Wash’s voice is just as low, and his hand is twitching into a fist, and the flashes of all of his friends are on a nonstop reel through his head. God, how did this go so wrong?

“No,” Tucker gets even closer, and Wash can feel his breath on his nose. “No, Wash. I’m-- _we're_ sick of this. Fucking Freelancers coming in and telling us what to do and then acting like we’re stupid for not being able to do it! We didn’t ask for this, Wash! And here we are again, you treating us like we’re little kids who still believe in Santa. You...you don’t _know_ us, Wash, and you know what? You’re not the only one who’s been through some shit, okay? So fuck _you.”_

Tucker storms off, leaving Wash standing there next to the broken array, shaking and trying to even out his breathing. Grif coughs from his place in the audience that had warily gathered, and Wash turns to him, his lips set into a permanent frown. “He’s right, y’know.”

With that, the group disperses, until only Caboose is left, staring up at Wash. Wash chokes when the tall man turns slowly and walks away too, and it is the first time in a very long time that Wash feels so alone.

 

Wash is checking the supplies, mostly to distract himself, when he hears someone come up behind him. They’ve all been avoiding him since the shouting match, which was only two or three hours ago. Wash stiffens, waiting for attack or for more yelling, but the person just stands there, and he turns to see Caboose. The private’s hands are shaking and his helmet is off, showing very light brown hair and a pale baby face. “Caboose?”

“I miss Shiela!” He yells, as if he’s just been spooked and Wash realizes that Caboose has been crying again. He stands, an ache churning in his chest to comfort Caboose, but he stays still regardless.

“What?”

“I m-miss Sheila! She was m-my girlfriend! Until, well, we don’t talk about that no good meanie charming her--” Caboose seems to realize he’s on the verge of babbling and blushes, “She was nice to me.”

“You...you had a girlfriend?” Wash’s hurt has been chased away by his shock and curiosity, and he steps closer to Caboose, tilting his head.

Caboose ducks his own head, clearly a little embarrassed, “She was on our team before...before all of this. I was using her when I...when Church fell over, maybe or maybe not because of me.”

“Caboose…” Wash starts, holding his hands up, “I’m kinda really confused, okay? Who is Sheila again?”

“She was our tank! She packed us all lunches before we left and everything! But…” Caboose frowns and looks somewhere that Wash will never be able to see, “...we haven’t seen her in a very long time. I think...I think we met her sister, Phyllis.”

“Phyllis? You mean…” Wash’s eyes widen in understanding, and he watches Caboose with a little pity, “I get it.”

“Yeah…so, can we be friends now?”

“What?” Caboose never seems to fail at surprising Wash.

“Well…” Caboose kicks at the ground bashfully, “You know me more now. So we can be friends, right?”

Wash wants to cry again, but he manages to hold back his tears. He swallows and bites out, “Yeah.”

 

“Simmons and I convinced Donut to go buy some headlight fluid once,” Grif mentions when Wash stumbles onto the two of them fiddling with the ship’s generators. It’s mostly Simmons doing the fiddling, while Grif reclines on the ground next to him. Wash blushes when he barges in, still strung from his fight with Tucker and his conversation with Caboose.

“Headlight fluid?” Wash questions, tilting his head. Grif’s helmet is lying beside him, and Wash forces himself to look away from the blend of pale and brown skin. He’s never asked, just figured that maybe he’d always been like that since no one else ever brought it up. Simmons, as always, was still wearing his helmet. Tucker had told him once that Simmons only took it off when he was by himself, or when he was with the other troopers exclusively.

“Exactly,” Grif laughs, shaking his head. “Remember that Simmons?”

“Of course I remember, fatass,” Simmons sounds antagonizing, but Wash has come to recognize the affection in everyone’s voices. “That’s was practically started all this shit.”

“What?” Wash is, a surprise to no one, confused once more. He doesn’t realize he’s sitting with them until he’s already on the ground and he blushes.

“Well,” Simmons looks up from his work, “If Donut hadn’t gone to get the fluid, then he wouldn’t have stolen the Blues’ flag, and then all that shit with Tex wouldn’t have happened, because Caboose wouldn’t have killed Church. Well, maybe. Then Lopez wouldn’t have fallen in love with Sheila, and then I wouldn’t have gotten my shit beat in, and you wouldn’t have gotten run over by a tank--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait,” Wash looks at Grif with wide eyes, who’s grinning back at him, “You got run over by a tank? And lived?”

“Well, duh. Sarge saved me by taking all of Simmons’ good parts and replacing my bad ones. It’s not like he needed them anyway.” Apparently Grif thinks this is a sufficient explanation, but Wash is looking at Simmons like he’s not quite sure what he is.

Simmons sighs, “Dammit, Grif,” and pulls off his helmet, revealing a very pale face littered with freckles, and bright hair. And a metallic plate covering most of his cheek and down into his neck. It clicks in Wash’s mind, and he feels a pit open in his gut. How could he not have known? Or realized? “There, now you know,” Simmons says bashfully, his skin turning a blazing red and his throat looking a little tight. Wash realizes that Simmons is afraid, and he hates himself for it.

“It’s...it’s cool,” is the only thing he can think of to say, but Simmons takes the praise gratefully and smiles at Wash for the first time he can see it. “I have to go check the perimeter again.”

As he’s walking away, he feels his chest tighten when he hears Grif speak to Simmons, “Now all your friends know your terrible fucking secret-- you’re Dutch Irish.”

 

“Was wonderin’ when you’d finally get your ass up here,” Sarge is sitting up by the crash site, cleaning his shotgun. Wash isn’t sure what to make of it, so he stumbles and stands in front of the older man awkwardly.

“Uh, what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy,” Sarge doesn’t even look up, “I know you haven’t worked out your little lover’s spat with Tucker.”

“I…” Wash blushes, and he tells himself it's not because he can recall all of Tucker’s freckles, and then he sighs, plopping down next to Sarge, “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Sarge rolls his eyes, “He’s right, though. I thought you Freelancer folk were supposed to be _smart.”_

Wash deflates, his stomach beginning to churn, “I was never the smart one in my team--”

“This _ain’t_ a team, dummy. It’s a family-- much as we all hate to admit it, we know it’s true. So it don’t _matter_ if the Blue hates you, he’s gonna look out for your hide anyway, ‘cause you’re in this just as much as we are.” The older man has only spared Wash a glance during his whole little speech, and Wash is grateful that Sarge can’t see the wetness in his eyes.

“I...I don’t know what to say.” He thinks of Carolina and Tex.

“Grif saved me once, y’know, the stinking dirtbag. Used CPR after I got a bullet to the head.”

“I don’t think that’s-- he did?” Wash’s jaw hangs open. If Sarge had ever come close to dying, or if Grif had, he’d never pictured the other to actually be the one to save the dying party. Waves were rolling in his chest, calming only when he clenched his fist and sighed.

“You bet. D’ya get it now, super soldier?” Sarge finally really looks at Wash, his old, grey eyes seeing something inside of Wash that Wash was unable to.

“Yeah,” He says, rising unsteadily to feet and moving back down to the canyon below.

 

Tucker is sitting against the giant metal spike in the center of their little canyon, their only hope for getting off this miserable planet. He doesn’t immediately start shouting when Wash approaches, so Wash takes that as a positive sign. “Can I sit?” he asks nervously, his heart pounding and gut twisting.

Tucker just nods, his jaw set, so Wash plops unceremoniously down next to the man, mirroring his position.

“I’m sorry,” Wash says, the words strangling themselves up on the way out of his throat.

Tucker is silent for a beat and then he murmurs, “Okay.”

“I…” Wash tries again, “You were right, Tucker.”

This livens Tucker up a little bit, at least gets him to look at Wash. “Yeah?”

Wash looks down at his hands, “Yeah. I...I don’t know you guys. I don’t, not really. I...in Project Freelancer, I didn’t even really know my best friend. Not the way you guys do.”

Tucker frowns, and then sighs softly, “I’m sorry too. I get that you seen some shit. But so have we. I’ve been pregnant before, Wash.”

This makes Wash stop and really consider what his life has come to. Finally, he manages to choke out, “What? The Fuck.”

Tucker laughs, a sound that sends Wash’s chest into a frenzy. “I’ve got a kid! Duh, how did you not know? Don’t I carry that “hot single military dad” vibe?”

Wash laughs, a sound strange to his own ears, and murmurs, “I guess I’m just really bad at reading people.”

“Well,” Tucker’s face lights up, “We got all kindsa people in this hellhole, so you’ll get plenty of practice.”

“Tucker,” Wash licks his lips self-consciously and turns to face his friend, “I didn’t finish earlier. I don’t know you, any of you, but...I want to.” The unspoken question hangs in the air between them, and Wash is terrified.

Tucker looks into Wash’s eyes, his grin stretching all the way across his face, and Wash feels like he’s home. “We better get started, soldier.”

**Author's Note:**

> i miss Blood Gulch.  
> also, wash may have known some of these things, but i chose to ignore that for the fic. sue me.


End file.
